


Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Spilled Wine

by jigjoo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-15 00:12:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jigjoo/pseuds/jigjoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes wakes up to find himself embroiled in a different sort of mystery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Spilled Wine

The first step to solving any and all mysteries is and always shall be the gathering of evidence through direct or indirect contact with the scene. Normally, this involves pacing the area affected by the mystery, interviewing those involved, and finally the application of well-practiced logic by a skilled logician. Sometimes it involved dressing up as a madman or someone more accustomed to conforming to social norms. Today, it involved Sherlock trying to wrack his own brain in search of information.

Unfortunately, both of the perpetrators of this puzzling occurrence were at a loss for explanation. Truthfully, Sherlock assumed as such, as John Watson had yet to wake from his (no doubt alcohol-fueled) slumber. He knew it was a bad idea, assuming that sort of thing, as he was certain to get it wrong, but the evidence was inconclusive. There was hardly any reasoning behind waking up in this state, not when-

Breathe, Sherlock.

The detective opened his eyes- a titanic effort, might I interject- and slipped out of bed, looking around for a moment before carefully placing his feet on the floor. The dull ache of good sex made him wince just a bit as he skirted around the mess of clothes. He counted idly on his way out of the door. One shirt. Two pair trou. Two pair unders. Two belts. One hideous jumper. Three socks. A look at the doctor on the bed confirmed the location of the missing garments. What a shame. That had been one of Sherlock’s favorite shirts.

Carefully, very carefully, he leaned over him, tugging the knot- hastily done, sloppy, half-hitch, but not quite practiced enough for a sailor’s work- free and letting John’s hands fall. There were red ligature marks on his wrists where he’d pulled a little too tightly during the night. So he had been awake while he was bound. Awake and struggling. Odd. Sherlock wondered who would tie up the doctor but not the detective. There was an obvious answer, but one he did not want to accept at the moment. The data remained inconclusive.

Pulling back and away, he examined the rumpled bedding. It had been made the day before, but not slept in. Of course. He had woken up uncovered and curled into Dr. Watson. Whoever had done this had done sloppy work of it.

Sherlock moved to the den, searching out more clues. Or maybe it was to get away from the fumes of alcohol just filling the room. Someone had plied the flatmates liberally with alcohol, and the two empty bottles of wine- no, one still had some in it, almost half of the bottle really- sat on the chess board. Well, one sat. The other had been knocked over at some point, and would undoubtedly stain the flooring. Mrs. Hudson would be sorely disappointed to see that.

He knelt and picked up the bottle, sniffing it. Nothing untoward in this, just a slightly-vinegary Merlot. A shame, really, that they’d had to drink this. One would think that whoever would do something so untoward would have better taste in libation. Really, this bottle was a waste of glass. Sherlock carried it into the kitchen, dumping the contents into the sink before setting it aside for recycling.

He returned a moment later, analyzing the living room for clues. There was nothing particularly out of the ordinary- the daily shift of objects that occurred in any room before straightening was visible. There were no obvious signs of a struggle. It had to have been someone they both knew, then, who could simultaneously assuage Sherlock’s particularness when it came to drinking and John’s own nerves. The number who could do such a thing was small.

Unless- unless the alcohol was impressed upon them. If they were outmaneuvered, it was perfectly possible for- Sherlock went to his laptop immediately, opening it and looking for messages from Mr. Moriarty. Nothing. Likewise on John’s computer. A search of the flat yielded no results.

Sherlock was just returning to the living room, admittedly a little frustrated, when John shuffled out of the kitchen, his morning tea in hand. He colored the minute he saw his flatmate, stammered something quietly, and ducked away. The detective dismissed this peculiar behavior as some sort of leftover shock- he had a blanket, didn’t he? He was in shock.- and sat in his chair, falling into deep thought.

John had only just settled back in to his armchair, fresh from the shower, when Sherlock reached the only possible conclusion. He aimed a steely look at John, then said, quietly, “Did you realize that you enjoy bondage?”

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This is my first work in the Sherlock fandom, and I certainly hope that it's not my last.


End file.
